


sometimes there's no reason (to justify the meaning)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s01e19 The Only Light in the Darkness, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 12:59:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4920574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma doesn't think she's ever been so relieved to see anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sometimes there's no reason (to justify the meaning)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little shorter than I would usually post as a separate fic, but I really love this one, so...ta-da?
> 
> Title is from Halestorm's _Amen_. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Jemma’s so relieved to find Skye leaving Koenig’s office that she could cry.

“Skye! Skye, oh thank God.”

“Simmons, what—”

She doesn’t give Skye time to finish her question. She all but shoves her back into the office, hurriedly closing and locking the door behind them. All of the doors in Providence are made of thick, heavy steel; it’s reassuringly solid, and the _thunk_ of the lock makes breathing a touch easier.

Of course, a _touch_ easier still leaves it very, very difficult—she’s nearly hyperventilating, which Skye seems to realize, as she seizes her by the shoulders and squeezes firmly.

“Jemma,” she says sharply. “Take a breath, okay? Nice and deep.”

Skye’s hold grounds her, a little, and she sucks in a desperate breath.

“Good,” Skye encourages. “Now let it out—slowly.”

She does, grasping Skye’s elbows for reassurance. The panic fluttering away in her lungs isn’t receding in the least, but given such a simple task as breathing, her mind is starting to clear a little.

That, of course, only lasts as long as it takes her unfortunate habit of drawing conclusions to resume, and then reason once again takes a back seat to desperation.

“He’s HYDRA,” she says, breathing it out on a much faster exhale.

Skye’s hands spasm on her shoulders. “What? _Who_?”

“Ward.” Tears blur her vision, and she swipes them away impatiently. “He killed Agent Koenig.”

“What? _No_ ,” Skye says, though her obviously instinctive denial is paired with a wary glance at the door. “How do you know? Did you see it? Wait, did _he_ see _you_?”

“No,” Jemma shakes her head. “No, Ward is—”

What did he say he was going to do? She can’t remember, for all that he told her only fifteen minutes ago. Her mind keeps catching on the image of poor Koenig in the vent, his throat a bloody mess. All she can remember of the conversation with Ward is the look on his face, the little smile he gave her—the one that warmed her so much. Remembering it now only chills her blood.

“Ward wasn’t there,” she says. “I didn’t see him do it. I found Koenig’s body in—in a vent. In the storage closet.”

“Oh,” Skye says. “Oh, fuck.”

“Quite,” Jemma agrees.

Skye releases her abruptly and hurries over to Koenig’s desk, pulling the top drawer open with so much force that the whole desk rattles when it hits the end of its track.

“But that doesn’t mean it was necessarily Ward, right?” she asks, even as she pulls a gun out of the drawer. “I mean, it could’ve been…”

She trails off, apparently realizing that the only other possible culprit is _also_ a member of their team. Either way, they’ve been betrayed.

“May left earlier, and in any case, the vent was too high,” Jemma tells her. “Only Ward would have been capable of lifting Koenig into it.”

“Fuck,” Skye says again, this time more vehemently. “Okay. Okay, let’s think.”

Strategizing is impossible. All Jemma can think about is Koenig—discovering his corpse, of course, but also the man himself. His admiration of Agent Coulson, his slightly off-putting enthusiasm, his blood dripping on her shoes…

She drags in another deep breath, trying to force herself to focus.

“Okay,” Skye says, and returns to the door to check the lock. “Cut the cameras.”

“What?” Jemma asks, even as she automatically moves to follow the order. “Why?”

“Last time I checked, neither one of us can fly a plane,” Skye says, though her focus is on her phone. She’s typing rapidly, either hacking something or frantically texting. Jemma sincerely hopes for the latter; they need back-up, and she has no idea where she left her own phone. “And I don’t really want to test my wilderness survival skills against Ward’s, do you?”

“And if we can’t run,” Jemma realizes, “our only option is to hide. Which will be much easier if he can’t simply check the surveillance feed.”

She curses herself silently, even as she quickly cuts the camera feeds. That should have occurred to her at once, but she’s so badly rattled that it’s like thinking through molasses.

It’s inexcusable. She’s an agent of SHIELD, even if SHIELD is no more, and she is made of sterner stuff than this. She can’t allow her panic and betrayal to overwhelm her.

But beneath those is grief, too, and that’s even harder to fight.

She thought she and Ward were working towards something. For the past few months, they’ve been growing slowly closer. Not close enough for her to use his first name, but close enough that she’s been thinking about it—turning it over in her mind, considering the best moment to try it out. He’s kissed her four times, now, and if that isn’t an invitation to address him by name, she doesn’t know what is.

Except it wasn’t an invitation. It must be some sort of game, to him—perhaps he has plans to lure her to HYDRA, or perhaps it just amuses him to toy with her heart.

God. She can’t believe he’s HYDRA.

“Right,” Skye says. “Did you get the cameras?”

“Yes.” Jemma starts opening the other drawers, hoping for another gun. Not that she has any confidence whatsoever in her ability to shoot Ward before he can harm her, but it will make her feel better to have one nonetheless. “Have you contacted the others?”

“No response,” Skye says, dropping heavily onto the couch. “They must still be busy with Daniels.”

“Wonderful,” Jemma mutters.

There are no further guns to be found in Koenig’s desk, and she paces away from it, restless in her fear.

“This will be the first place he looks for us,” she says, chewing on her thumbnail. “But…”

“But to hide we’ll have to go out there,” Skye completes glumly. “We might run right into him.”

“Precisely.”

There are no good options here, really. Their best hope is for the others to return before Ward comes looking for them, and that seems highly unlikely. If only she could remember what he _said_ —but her memory simply refuses to cooperate. Though it’s happy to offer up their various kisses—from the desperate, hungry one after their reunion at the Hub to the sweet, almost uncertain peck a few hours ago—it remains stubbornly silent on the issue of Ward’s location.

Skye’s phone buzzes just as Jemma’s pacing takes her past the door, and she whirls around so fast she nearly stumbles.

“Is it the team?” she asks eagerly. “Are they on their way?”

“Not exactly,” Skye says, frowning down at her phone. She sighs, then offers Jemma an apologetic smile. “I have a confession to make, Simmons.”

“Okay,” she says slowly. “What sort of…”

Her voice dies in her throat as warm hands grip her hips to tug her back against a solid chest.

“Hey, there.”

Her blood runs cold.

It’s Ward, of course, Ward kissing her temple sweetly and grinning against her skin as she flinches—but how? The door isn’t the sort with a lock easily picked, but she _knows_ she locked it, and Skye double-checked it, so—

Skye.

“No,” she says—or perhaps only mouths. Her throat has gone tight, and she can’t quite hear anything past the roaring in her ears.

Actually, that’s not true.

She very clearly hears the “Hail HYDRA” that accompanies Skye’s apologetic shrug—just as she hears Ward’s quiet chuckle.

“Sorry, Jem,” he murmurs, so close that his lips brush her ear. She feels it all the way to her toes and hates herself for it…though not nearly as much as she hates him. “She’s with me.”

“Don’t worry,” Skye says, and Jemma wants to cry for the familiarity of the wide-eyed reassurance being aimed her way. “We’re not gonna hurt you.”

“How could you possibly expect me to believe that?” she asks, voice mercifully even.

“Believe it or not,” Ward says. “It’s the truth. You’re safe with us.”

She draws breath—to protest, to accuse, to curse? Even she’s not certain—but doesn’t have the chance.

“Skye?” Ward prompts.

“It’ll be okay,” Skye says. Jemma barely hears her; all of her focus is on the weapon the woman she would have called her best non-Fitz friend is pointing at her. “We’ll take care of you.”

It’s an ICER, she realizes, but that’s a small mercy.

There’s the distinctive _fweep_ of an ICER shot, and then Jemma hears nothing at all.


End file.
